


words, and the lack thereof

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1381807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Anansi Surana used a campfire as an excuse to bug Sten, and one time he couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	words, and the lack thereof

**Author's Note:**

> I personally headcanon qunari as agender and intersex, employing the "ey/em/eir" pronoun set. This is going to be an enduring theme. I'm going to go back and edit my older works featuring qunari soon.

**i.**

"Did they feed you? While you were in the cage?"

"… I was awaiting _death._ Why would I have been fed?”

"Well, I mean… okay. Fine. You’re right. But… you don’t seem hungry."

"And your point is?"

"Do qunari even _need_ food to survive, or are you some kind of...?”

"All I require to survive is the will to do so. The rest falls into place asit will."

"… Well, sure, great, but I think food plays a part in there _some_ where…”

"I eat when I must. Not constantly, as you all seem to."

"What about pleasure?"

"What about it?"

"Well, there’s a baker in Redcliffe. Guess we’ll find out."

**ii.**

"What are you staring at, elf?"

"I don’t know, _qunari._ I’m trying to figure that out.”

"Are you as fascinated with the reproductive organs of everyone you meet as you seem to be with mine?"

"Yes, actually. It’s just… most of the time I can figure out what’s down there without having to ask."

"Perhaps you should not be so presumptuous."

"Well, I mean, obviously _Morrigan_ isn’t going to have the same thing down there as I do—”

"How do you know?"

"… Because she’s a woman."

"So?"

"So… women have… what _are_ you getting at, Sten?”

"You’ll figure it out, I am sure."

**iii.**

"You don’t call me ‘elf’ anymore. What happened?"

"Did you _enjoy_ being impersonally addressed by the name of your species?”

"Well… no… but I got used to it."

"One should not become used to being robbed of their personhood. No more than I should have perpetuated such."

"… You get stranger and stranger every day. You know that?"

"And you, less so."

**iv.**

"You know… I never imagined we’d end up friends, Sten."

"Is that what we are?"

"Well, isn’t it? You don’t try to fight me anymore, that’s a start… and I… I don’t know. I think we’ve… I don’t know."

"You do know. At least, I would hope that is why you’re speaking."

"Yeah, yeah. I just… now I’m unsure. How _do_ you see me, Sten?”

"I see you as you have presented yourself to me."

"No, I mean… like, do you… _like_ me?”

"It would seem so."

"You… you do?"

"Why do you sound surprised? Is it incredible for a qunari to court something other than contempt or apathy for one’s companion?"

"Well, no, I didn’t mean it like _that_ —”

"You are so concerned about how I feel. Why? What secret do you so desperately need to divulge in only the most favourable of conditions?"

"Urgh. …I like you too, Sten. A… lot. Almost as much as I like Alistair, I’d say."

"It is not merely _liking_ that you have for Alistair.”

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"I am glad we are of the same accord, then. Good night."

"Wait-- You-- you _what?”_

**v.**

Sometimes Anansi saw things in the flames, and very few of these things were pleasant. Sometimes Anansi had to wrench his far-seeing eyes away from the dancing campfire and seek out someone, anyone, to pester with conversation, if only to forget.

Sten, who enjoyed the radiating heat of the fire, was an easy target. Later, ey became a common target.

But Anansi sees Denerim in the flames now, as they stand on the metaphorical precipice of battle, of change, of possible grisly death. He sees the things he fears — all of his companions and lovers falling one by one, his Creation skill unable to resurrect them, the archdemon’s shadow looming over him like the very shadow of death. He sees blackness, deep at the heart of the flames, a devouring sorrow that leaves him hollow and soulless, too broken to live, too apathetic to die.

Is that what awaits him? Not the glory that the stories promise, or the virtuous sacrifice that the Wardens preach, but… loss? Loss so profound it steals his spirit away and shreds it like so much rubbish?

A shadow looms over him then, a real shadow, and his heart jumps into his throat, fear snatching his breath and squeezing his chest. But Sten’s hand settles briefly on his trembling shoulder before the qunari sinks to sit beside him, and Anansi opens his mouth to say something, anything — _"We’ve come so far, you can’t leave me now"_ —

But Sten had never been demonstrative or even particularly touch-oriented, and to be quietly held against eir great bulk is disarming; to be given what he needed without having to be asked, as if Sten just _knew_ …

 _You_ do _know, don’t you?_ Anansi realises as he leans against Sten. _You’ve always known._

They don’t speak the entire time, not even once, not even when sniffles turn into tears and Sten curves eir other arm around his trembling, diminutive form. And for once, that’s enough, even for Anansi.


End file.
